I Stole A Baby

And I’m sorry. I stole a blue-eyed toe-headed overalled emptiness because IJust couldn’t help myself. She was climbing a fence, she was smelling a tree. She was a whip snapping wet wings. She was a sky that could hold anything.

I fed her square meals of television, eggs, and ambition, served rare. She ate the garnish, grew smaller and smaller until she was gifted and talented—pretty new scales, shiny black shoes worth the pinch. Now it’s not clear whether, if I keep tightening the belt, she will ever be able to disappear.

In my defense, I love her.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook holds a BA from Vassar College and an MFA in Writing from Lindenwood University. She teaches college writing and is the co-owner and chief editor of BluePlanetJournal.com. Her nonfiction, poetry, and flash fiction have appeared in Creations Magazine, Little India, Outpost, Nowhere Poetry, and The Syzygy Poetry Journal.

Betrayed

Leo squeezed Hayden’s neck. Slowly the life began to leave her body as her eyes widened and face reddened.

“You slept with him, you damn witch!” Leo squeezed harder banging Hayden’s head against the wall until she collapsed with a thump, her dead eyes staring blankly at him. Leo released his grip and took a deep breath wiping the sweat off his face with the back of his hand.

Leo wiped down every trace of his finger prints and DNA. He put the gloves in his pocket and left Hayden’s house intent on finding the man she left him for.

From Guest Contributor Lisa Scuderi-Burkimsher

Reflex Action

The front page of the morning newspaper is carrying a photo of the xenophobic, misogynistic new President.

Suddenly I spit. Expectorant deluges the photo and page. It is an uncontrollable reflex action. I couldn’t suppress it. It’s not like I knew it was going to happen or had planned it.

The commuters in the subway car look at me in silence. I am embarrassed. I am also sorry for damaging a complete stranger’s newspaper.

It was when he raised his open newspaper to read it, the front page photo loomed in front of my face triggering this; a reflex action.

Grandma

The woman who has been known only as Grandma for most of her life holds the baby in her lap tight and points to different pictures in the photo album. “That’s my father in that picture right there,” she says, pointing to a black and white image that seems almost ghostly.

Grandma watches the baby’s eyes pour over the pictures, and she wonders what will happen to this generation that won’t be preserved in faded photographs. Will they live forever on social media timelines, or will their digital afterlife be as fleeting as the breaths one takes in a lifetime?

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

Forgiveness

She walked along the deserted beach, cold wet sand hard underfoot, leaving her well-formed arch, her heavy heel dug-in tight, her human track. She scanned the choppy grey ocean, a seagull skimming along ready to dive. Looking ahead, an outcropping of massive black boulders stumbled together into a makeshift Henry Moore sculpture. The solid blocks of granite, columnar or reclining, soft-edged or angular, were reminiscent of her mother. The stoic strength, the impermeability, the dense solid weight of judgement. She had framed her adult life accordingly, with a negative imperative: I will not be like my mother.​

From Guest Contributor Holiday Goldfarb

Light

You leapt forward with clear resolve. Left me standing in the dark.

I mull over your departure. Review circumstances. My mind turns somersaults, not being able to comprehend.

It wasn’t me, you once said. Not even us. You tried to resolve battles within you. Past demons colliding with ideals you set for the future. Hope slipping into a void.

I offered you help. You refused.

Into the darkness I stare. Light beams from afar. Tempts me to look into a future I can make my own.

I’ll open the door. Be on my way. Knowing you won’t travel with me.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work has been published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, 101 Words, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, SixWordMemoirs, and Espresso Stories.

Rain Vigil

Worn wooden arms hold me as I rock in my grandma’s rocking chair on the front porch of her old house. My grandma’s quilt keeps me warm in the cool fall air. It’s the first day it hasn’t rained in weeks. A mist of water rises over the treetops, and the grass is wet. I can’t stay here long. The house is already sold. All the rooms are empty. All that’s left is the rocking chair, the quilt, and me. I’ve kept vigil with the sorrowing rain. I pack up these last moments, get behind the wheel, and drive away.From Guest Contributor Tyrean Martinson

Tyrean is a writer, daydreamer, and believer at http://tyreanswritingspot.blogspot.com

His Name Is Death

Tears flowed down her face.

The chain broke as the coffin was lowered.

She gasped and covered her face. She wanted to run, but her love for him kept her standing in front of his grave.

The grave-keeper struggled with the chain and the casket. He pulled the chain, causing the casket to drop into the grave.

The lady fainted when the casket entered the grave.

The grave-keeper said, “Carry her and put her into the hearse. I’ll bury him. Then, we will go to the hall.”

She woke up and said, “Death.”

“That was his name?”

She nodded. “Death.”

From Guest Contributor Larry Sells

The Wonder Of Pictures

Beth became chilled from the eerie black and white photo. A picture of supposed birds, looked like three monsters from a low-budget horror flick. Still, she stared at it wide-eyed. What did it mean? Why was she fascinated? She turned the picture upside down and sideways studying it, hoping to find meaning. It was useless. After all, in the digital world, anything could happen. She decided to let go of her obsession and tossed the unpleasant picture into the garbage can. After she left the room, that same photo appeared on the coffee table waiting for the next family member.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Ignominy

The oppressive dryness from the onboard heating joins forces with the mid-carriage intensity of the bus engine to agitate my Nor Loch-purchased nausea. I glare up the aisle at the convex miniature of the driver’s face trying not to think of anything stomach-related...or liquid...or food.

My teeth are Publius Horatius at the Sublicius Bridge: facing off against a more dreaded force than that of Clusium.

But bridges span rivers, and the guy next to me sipping spring water from a bottle of ostentatious brand summons images of the Tiber and spilt blood.

Bile breaks through and brings friends.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid